


You're Real Cute When You Exist

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftercare, Blood Kink, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Invasion of Privacy, Masturbation, Murder, Mutilation, Obsession, Oral Sex, Premature Ejaculation, Stalking, Yandere, careful sex, mentions of past rape, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anon asked: Short story about infected Lucas being stalker/Yandere about the reader? And finally just deciding to make them fall in love with him?Well, it isn't short, but I hope I got it right for you, Anon! I've never run into what Yandere meant until this so I had to do a bit of research.Warnings for: mentions of past rape, and falling in love with your stalker, see tags for rest of warnings.





	You're Real Cute When You Exist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



**Murder**

It was all over the news, your mother said so. You weren’t sure if she was joking or not, but after a few moments of quiet muttering over the phone between her and your stepfather, it’s apparent that he’s trying to shush her. So, based on that, you know your sweet, overbearing mother isn’t just running on gossip. If Phil is trying to shut her up then it's severe enough he’d want to spare you, and that piques your interest, making your fingers flutter against your thigh.

 

With your shoulder pinching your phone to your ear, you fumble around the couch cushions for the remote. No way this could be real, you think. 

 

“Turn to channel four! The commercials are nearly done,” she gushes into the phone; a wild, eager excitement that makes your eyes roll into the back of your skull. It never ends with this woman, you think, exiting out of Netflix to click over to the static hell commonly known as cable television. You can’t remember the last time you last used it. After this - this one crazy ass news story, you’re gonna call your dumb ISP and cancel the pointless cable package. No reason to use it - even for this you could have used your phone. At this point, it's just a matter of laziness. 

 

“Hurry-hurry!” Your mom chants, frantic. 

 

“Hey,” you grouse, kicking your feet up on the coffee table, “chill out, I'm watching.”

 

A commercial for toilet paper shoves itself in your face with a loud jingle and an overdone cartoon butterfly - it flaps across the screen before superimposing itself into a sheet of ass paper, becoming one with the printed pattern. God, you hate TV, but if your Mom’s right then you'd be a fool to miss this. 

 

The commercial ends in a fade to black before the news station logo rolls up, revealing a hot middle-aged woman with painted on eyebrows. 

 

“Good morning, Dulvey, and we’re back with updates on the tragedy that occurred late last night.” Pause for dramatic effect, “At one thirty-five this morning, law enforcement officials were contacted by an anonymous caller in regards to a body found in the middle of highway twenty-seven just past Big Boys Tire and Auto Center.”

 

In the phone your mother starts to titter, “Officer Huxley, it was ‘im that said it was that fella of yours. He told me at service this morning!”

 

“... Shut up,” you mutter, turning up the volume on the TV. There's a very unpleasant feeling in your stomach, not unlike apprehension and dread, but somewhere you admit it could also be an ache of relief. You swallow, crush the phone in your hand and hug your knees; listening. 

 

“The body has been identified as Blake Kristofferson - a former quarterback at Lewis Charter School who recently had tie-ins with a local gang. Police suspect the death and… graphic dismemberment of the body to be gang related and not linked to the greater series of homicides that have been affecting the area.”

 

Somewhere, you could swear you hear someone screaming, but the news lady dissolves into blurry, night vision footage of the crime scene and your focus turns. A dark, grainy film with muffled audio becomes your world for the next few minutes. A little red disclaimer at the bottom of the screen warns against underage views and disturbing material. Fuck that, you think. It's all about ratings with tv and if showing real human dismemberment will get them that, then they'll fucking show it and any disclaimer is just to keep lawyers off their asses. 

 

The camera pans across a line of flashing cop cars - all white light and silent alarms. A half dozen or so police officers are hanging around with knuckles leaning up on their waists, waiting as the camera pans in. The film blurs, blowing up with soft white dots and dark faded edges until the cameraman refocuses and-

 

“What the fuck…” You breathe and watch, ignoring how your mother clicks her tongue at your language. 

 

This was for you. A scarf, streaked with dimples of black thread and a striped fringe knot around what's left of Blake’s mouth. It's not even as if some maniac had the same scarf as you… you made that thing yourself, and it's been missing since last winter. 

 

Your mother's excited chatter falls into a baritone drawl as you lower the phone against your chest, feeling your heart begin to palpitate in confusion, fear, and anticipation.  

 

There’s a sign around Blake’s neck, strung up with bright party ribbon. A blast of glitter coats the shitty cardboard sign resting on his chest and written in uneven letters are the words ‘MAN’S GOTTA PAY HIS DUES.' 

 

You suck in a hard breath, remembering the flash of pain in your ribs when Blake had you on the ground, slamming the toe of his boots into your chest. That awful crack of noise still haunts you a month later. 

 

This is... you swallow down a whimper and watch the camera pull back, wobble and zoom back in. With a gentle hand, you slip an arm underneath your breasts, feeling the raised web of bandages underneath your loose shirt. 

 

Gotta pay his dues…

 

The camera angle pans around - officers waving their hands in conversation while more of Blake's dead body is gone over. The scarf wrapped around his head, shoved between a maw of broken teeth and messy gums, makes you feel sick. It looks like his hands have been removed… and his feet, and there's a dark stain underneath the sign. You wonder, perversely, what the sign’s covering. Maybe a gaping hole stuffed with tinsel. 

 

It's disgusting, but you watch as the crime scene footage breaks away to the pretty woman with the stiff hair-sprayed updo and lick your lips as the weight of Blake’s situation takes hold. He's dead. Your scarf is tied around his head, and he's dressed up in a message that's clear. As you sit there with your mother's voice gawking out of the phone resting in your lap, brushing the bandages wrapped around your healing ribs, you feel at once terrified and… special. Someone killed Blake, and all fingers point to it being over you - not just you, but what Blake did to you that night. 

 

How? You wonder. Not even your mother knows it was him. 

 

You got drunk and fell over your coffee table while trying to get to the bathroom. That was the story. It's what you told the police and the nurses - it's what your mother thinks happened, and it's why you’re two weeks in as a new member of Alcoholics Anonymous even though you've never been drunk in your life. No one but you and Blake knows how your ribs were broken - unless he blabbed to the wrong person at a game. 

 

But your scarf?! 

 

Maybe - fuck, maybe Blake took it from you at some point, and he had it on him when whoever killed him killed him. It was possible, but the sign? 

 

Man's gotta pay his dues…?

 

You can’t talk your way out of believing what it looks like because it looks like someone took your scarf, somehow, and killed Blake because of what the asshole did to you. Sure you could make excuses, but in the back of your head, you’ll always know you were wrong. 

 

It's too much to take it right now, and the next time you look at your phone, your Mom’s hung up, leaving a string of voicemail notifications from her and a dozen texts. 

 

With a heavy sigh, you send her a quick courtesy text, letting her know you're alive and okay and you’ll talk with her later, before making your way to the kitchen. Your legs feel like you've been sitting on the toilet too long; weak and numb. It's all you can muster, just getting to the medicine cabinet, cracking open your bottle of pain pills and hovering there in the corner of the counter tops. A wave of nausea threatens to turn into puke - something you can't afford, figuratively and literally. Another break will cost you more than you can dish out and the pain… fuck. 

 

As the TV goes on about leads, you turn on the faucet, fill a glass with tepid tap water and swallow your medicine, chugging the glass empty before gasping for breath. 

 

“-but the department is strongly urging anyone with information about the death of Blake Kristofferson or leads as to the identity or whereabouts of those involved to call the Dulvey Precinct at-”

 

The number pops up on the screen, bright yellow over the news reporter as her red lips move under the interlaid graphic. You stare, all the noise in the world seemingly swallowed up by your mounting dread. 

 

Someone's killed for you and you have no fucking clue who it could be. 

  
  
  
  


**Stalking V1.0**

“Do you work on the Naval base?” The modelesque dude behind the counter asks, looking at the computer screen in front of him with beautifully pinched eyebrows. You were too busy trying to get your debit card out of the black hole you call your purse to notice him before, and now you've totally let his question fly over your head. It's been awhile since you've been out of the house and with your ribs still mending you haven't masturbated in a while.

 

It appears you've let your libido, yanking at its ball and chain, distract you once again. It's not like he's that attractive...

 

“What?” You ask like an idiot, even going so far as to sound like you’ve got marbles behind your eyes instead of brain matter. He blinks those crystal blues and clicks something on his screen, fingering the edge of your new phone that’s currently rebooting with your old SIM card.

 

“The Navy Base, you work out there? Your card has one of them ugh-” he blinks and snaps his fingers trying to remember whatever it is he’s forgotten, but something about his mention of the military and your phone and whatever's on it flusters you. 

 

“Wha-”

 

“-like a monitor. Saw something similar on this Navy kid’s phone last month,” he finishes, not even bothering to look up at the pinched face you're making. A monitor? Like some sort of tracker or… or what?

 

“I… don’t work on base,” you manage, laying your palms flat on the counter, leaving your purse in the chair beside you, “Are you telling me that someone is monitoring my phone?”

 

“Well… yeah? You don't work for the Navy?”

 

“No-no I don't! I just said I didn't. You're saying someone's been monitoring my phone?! ‘Cause I've had that phone for the past four years!” As you raise your voice, the tender bust in your ribs tightens, but you can't undo the tension in your body while this idiot just looks at you with an expression of retarded confusion. 

 

The phone store clerk, who had looked smokin’ hot a few minutes ago is blabbing his mouth like a fish until he wheezes, “... it's stuck on your SIM card.”

 

“So longer then? Can't you do something? - call the cops?! This has to be illegal, right?” You feel your shoulders trembling as - you peer at his name tag - Malcolm shrugs a well-defined shoulder. 

 

“I can remove it for you, but I don't think you can trace where it came from… you sure you don't work for the Navy?”

 

You flounder, tension draining at once at the sheer disbelief you feel looking at this moron. His manicured brow arches, but something must show on your face because he turns with pursed lips back to the monitor and clicks a few keys. Your phone makes a life-giving dawn of sound as it reboots. 

 

Malcolm clears his throat, “I removed it for you. Maybe, ya know… don't leave your phone alone anymore.”

 

“Thanks,” you sneer, taking your new phone from his hand, nails scratching his palm in your fury. He looks unphased; a mask of calm plastered on. Surely, being such a fucking idiot means he must be used to putting on a brave face in front of frustrated customers. Frustrated was a light term for what you feel, though. 

 

Sweat beads up on your forehead as you hand him your debit card, fingers shaking with rage. 

 

Thankfully, by the time he gives you a receipt to sign, you're less close to snapping at him as before. You ignore his soft mutter of ‘thank you,' waiting with a hot face as he tears off your copy. 

 

You don't notice the skinny guy smoking a cigarette outside the store, even though he sways nearer as you pass by. As you walk through the sticky fall air, holding your breath until the haze of smoke clears, you miss the way he leans against the exterior of the store, watching you heatedly; fingers twitching around his smoke. 

 

Too freaked out and consumed by the implications of having a monitor on your phone for however fucking long, you sure as hell don't notice how the man walks to his own car, climbs in and tails you until you’re home safe and… thankfully less pissed than before. 

 

That night you google the extent of what a phone monitor is and spend the next four hours searching through those secret-cam porn sights for a video of you changing… or masturbating. 

 

It takes two weeks and another set of x-rays with the clinic to stop obsessing over whether or not some pervert is jerking it to pictures and videos of your oblivious naked self and another week to stop shoving your phone under a pile of towels before and after every shower. 

  
  
  


 

**Contact**

There was something about him that looks unnaturally familiar, but you couldn’t pinpoint it in the dark of night. It was a small town, and the wrong side of the swamp was infested with guys that look just like him - well, maybe not just, but equally as skinny and sleep-deprived for sure. With some sleep and a week's worth of proper food, he might have caught your eye on the street for other reasons, but as it stands it’s his unhealthy pallor that grabs your eye… and the fact that he was angled directly towards you.

 

He’d looked away the second you turned, but he had been staring, and right back at him, you stare from across the street. The skinny guy seems a little older than you, but he’s got one of those faces that are deceiving. The concave shadows under his cheekbones and the sunken pits that his eyes sit in makes him look like he’s pushing forty, but everything else screams of a drug-addled guy in his late twenties.

 

Eyes that glow under the street lamp dart along the barren road between the two of you, and after a minute of your hard stare, he shoves his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. From this distance you think you see his mouth twist in the corner, lifting up in a hard, quick smirk before pushing the smoke between his lips and lighting up.

 

You wait for the bus in silence. 

 

Two older women are huddled under the street lamp on your side of the road, complaining to each other about work, kids, and men. The reek of smoke filters out from behind you, making you forget for a second that the druggie is safely on the other side of the road, and not beside you. It’s judgemental, and you hate being one of ‘those’ people, but the pain pills have made you less than fun to be around, and everything is just another obstacle to you, even people - even when they don’t talk to you.

 

“-jus’ can’t get the lazy bastard to do anything. He eats all mah food and won’t do one damn dish. Can you believe…” the sentence breaks for a suck of nicotine, “... I saw ‘im usin’ one of mah baking dishes for his cereal.”

 

The other woman behind you, enraptured in this conversation, gasps. You sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to sink your head into your palms and curl up, but you can barely bow your back with the brace around your chest and just sitting straight hurts. Bending your spine might send you to the damn sidewalk at this point. 

 

Today has been your first day back to work, and though your job rarely entails strenuous activity, it’s been a pain sitting in the same position all day, unable to recline and give your abdominals a rest. Your back hurts - your neck and ass ache and above all else it feels like tiny needles are sending shocks of pain through your left side. The pain isn’t unbearable, but your ribs haven’t ceased hurting since dear departed Blake broke them. 

 

As a hard wind picks up the ends of the braids resting over your shoulders, you inhale clean southern air, free of cigarette smoke and close your eyes. A car drives by, and you open your eyes to the sight of that skinny guy staring at you. 

 

His gaze twitches, but he doesn’t look away and the longer you stare back, the deeper red his face becomes… as if - as if he’s blushing? 

 

A queer warning runs across your temples, sinking down in your gut and makes itself home as the guy takes a hard inhale of his cigarette, throwing his hand down at his side. The cherry glows brightly, despite the shine from the street light. Half of his body is engulfed in darkness, and it's into this darkness he exhales a lungful of smoke. 

 

Time slows to a crawl as you hold your breath and watch - the billow of faded smoke curls and scatters, exposing the hard box of light blinking in his right eye, set in pitch black. Though the red remains, his eyelids droop down, looking back at you with a lazy, almost intoxicated manner. It forms an excess layer of saliva over your tongue - so much you swallow thickly, feeling your tongue grow damp again almost immediately.

 

You’ve seen him somewhere before - you know it. Nothing comes to mind, even though you wrack your memory for his face. Could be he wasn’t a walking skeleton when you met him, but with those eyes, that nose and hairline, you think he would stick out from other faces. Nothing, you come up empty.

 

“Ah’haha! - haaaa,” the lady behind you erupts in a fit of laughter, startling you so badly you yell, throw a palm up over your left side, clutching the spider web of agony and crumble off the bench to one knee.

 

The pain - it takes your breath away. The laughter behind you cuts off abruptly, and the soft pat-pat of footsteps approaches. The ladies swarm you, one in front and the other to your right, bending low. An age-softened hand reaches towards you, but for some reason you flinch, receiving another stab of pain for your misthought. 

 

“Oh! Lord, sweetie… what’s wrong? What hurts?” A grey-haired woman kneels beside you; bones creaking on her way down and you feel your face burn with embarrassment. For some reason, you recall the guy across the street, and even though you’d never want to impress someone like that, or care if you looked hard, you feel the familiar pain of mortification atop the physical discomfort. 

 

The pain pills are also making you emotional. They do nothing for the pain - not really, so why you keep taking them you’re not sure, but along with everything else, they bring out your worst phobias. Claustrophobia being one of them, and though the women around you only mean to help, their constant fussing and questions are leading you on the fast track to a panic attack.

 

“Hey!” A swamp water voice barks. 

 

Your skin runs cold as the older ladies trying to pull you to your feet pause and turn. Through a curtain of loose hair, you can see two baggy jean-clad legs and two large, well-worn sneaker flats. No, not him too? - you think, about ready to just lay yourself on the ground and block the rest of the world out when he makes a sound like a surfacing gator, “She’s got claustrophobia, give ‘er some space why don’cha?!”

 

The women take a step back each; tension hanging in the air. 

 

“Who-” you begin, twisting one leg out from under you so you can rest your ass on the dirty sidewalk, shoulder jabbed against the city bench. Your hand clutches at your ribs, not that it does any good, but holding them through the movement feels reassuring somehow. The guy kicks a foot back as if your slow motions startle him - it makes your lips curl up, finding something funny about this. 

 

Maybe the dude does know you, or maybe he’s the creep that killed Blake for you - the idea makes you laugh, but it barely makes it out of your throat before your teeth are banging together as a dull wave of pain twists inside your side. 

 

“Go on! Get - she don’t need a couple of fucking hens at her throat.”

 

“Excuse me-” one of the ladies quips, but this guy - whoever the fuck he thinks he is - just snarls, kicking up gravel under his shoes as he darts forward. You tense, suck in a breath and hold it as the ladies fade away from your peripherals. 

 

Are you serious? - you think. They just up and cowered away just like that…

 

The bitter smile on your face drops just like that as you tug your purse off the bench with a trembling arm. Your bag crashes to the ground beside you, but you reach around the mess blindly, ending up wrist deep in the bowels of your purse with a small can of pepper spray resting under your palm. With unnatural resolve, you look up at the dude as he huffs, practically panting. His eyes are glowing - something otherworldly staring back at you - as if he could steal your soul with one fatal blink.

 

“Well, shit baby- ugh…heh” he blinks, but your soul remains. You watch as he plasters on a slight grimace that’s almost a smile. Baby, he’d called you baby. It’s obvious it was a slip of the tongue, but it makes you extra distrustful as he bends his legs and drops into a crouch beside you. Those dead blues piercing into your ribs; bulging at the sight. 

 

“We all make mistakes from time to time, ya know… ah’ call everyone baby ya know, even mah little sisters. I mean- shit, man that came out wrong. The point is I got them pills if you need ‘em. See…”

 

Gradually, he grows more and more manic as his mouth runs. He’s digging himself a hole - you know it, he knows it, and sure as shit the gawking ladies behind her know it. The talk of pills has gotten one of the women muttering softly. You think you hear her mention the cops, but… for some reason, you don’t want them calling the pigs on this guy, even if he is too close and his adam's apple is bobbing nervously.

 

In a harsh, extended whisper he tells you, “Ativaaaan - got a whole bottle of it here if ya need one. Always got it on me in case ya’... shit! - shit…” he snarls, panting and stands up abruptly. All the while you stay stock still; fingers curling into your healing ribs. 

 

Through your shock, you don’t feel the pain. 

 

This guy, who’s sweating in buckets by now - fingers twitching and eyes racing around behind you - finally closes his chatterbox and swallows audibly. He runs a fast hand over the high slope of his forehead, and back down his scalp; tendons in the back of his hand rising against the thin flesh. A hard, panic-torn laugh tumbles out of his throat, catching between his teeth as he shoves his hands in his pockets, turns on a heel and walks off with his head in his shoulders. 

 

The whole thing leaves you emotionally raw.

 

Betty and Anita, the two women, sit with you on the bench until the bus finally arrives. They’d helped you up onto the hard metal seat, supporting your shoulders the whole while as the three of your waited. 

 

They insisted on filing a report with the police, but you don’t want to. 

 

Leaning against Betty in the bus, you think about Blake and the secret you’ve been holding onto - reflect on the guy tonight who knew too much about you and imagine that face splitting in glee as he hacked off Blake’s hands… hacked off his feet and shoved handfuls of tinsel into the asshole’s empty belly. 

 

Even though your lower lip quivers at the thoughts racing through your mind, something about the idea appeals to you. That man, with his ghost-like eyes and hard face - so thin and haunting - had scared you. Hell, you were still afraid. Every day is pain, but it’s also fear - fear of undressing with your phone uncovered, fear of the cops showing up on your doorstep, but mostly it’s been fear of who had killed Blake… and if you were next. 

 

Tonight, as two sweet ladies follow you to your bus stop, insist on seeing you safely to your front door and giving out both their numbers in case you need anything, you smile and head inside with half of the fear you’d had stepping outside that day.

 

It’s him, your mind reassures. 

 

That night you glue down your windows, double lock your front door and shove a chair up under the knob just to be safe. The back door gets the same treatment, and once all the blinds are drawn, and you’ve got a hot plate of reheated Mexican food on the dining room table and a glass of water in your palm, you finally take a breath and pick up your phone.

 

Looking into the little black camera lens, you whisper, “You should really quit smoking, it makes you stink.”

  
  
  
  


**Stalking V2.0**

You weren't dumb enough to walk home from work after dark, that's what friends are for or the city bus, but fuck that. Last week was sufficient to keep you away from that place for a while. No, you'd call up a friend for a ride home. Only no one answers, and you end up standing alone outside work, wondering what good were friends if they couldn't be bothered to call you back with a reason why. Margo had even read your text - the bitch… and still hadn't bothered to text you back.

 

It's depressing; you're depressed and based on the time on your phone, on top of everything your mother will be knee deep in her fourth game of Bingo by now. Won’t even have her phone on, you think miserably. It’s either walking or the bus and though your X-ray had come back healthy, and your mobility limit had been tapered back some, you didn’t want to walk all that way… nor did you care to do it alone. What if that man stalking you had ill intentions?

 

Throughout the week you thought you saw him here and there, always fleeting and never sure. Thinking back, you used to smell the faint whiff of stale cigarettes every now and then. The stink would come at random, sometimes in your home, and it was only after that night at the bus stop that you realized it was a signal that he’d been near. There hadn’t been any signals like that since, but the feeling of never being truly alone never let up either. 

 

Maybe he had your phone tapped again - monitored, whatever. 

 

Perhaps he’d taken your words to heart. If the creep had stopped smoking just because you told him he stunk… then maybe the only thing to worry about was getting abducted and brought to his basement for some midnight rumpus. For anyone else, that threat alone would have kept them indoors for a few months, but for you? - well, Blake had done worse to you, or at least he’d given it his best shot. To the best of your knowledge, this stalker of yours had killed Blake. He’d left him tied to a fucking chair with his hands and feet lopped off, a sign around his neck and your scarf shoved between his busted teeth. If that wasn’t a declaration of protection, you weren’t sure what was.

 

So it wasn’t him you were afraid of.

 

No, other people were monsters. Blake was a monster. This guy that was following you around… well, maybe he was a monster to other people, but he wasn’t your monster. 

 

You tell yourself he’s just a man with an obsession as one of those old, rusty muscle cars - tires burning rubber over the edge of the sidewalk - screams towards you. It comes from out of nowhere with the headlights shut off. The car brakes, jerks on its suspension and you stare wide-eyed into the open passenger window at the guy who’s been occupying your mind for the past week… longer if you think back to all the obsessing you’ve done since Blake was found butchered on the highway.

 

Dark red paint chips along the curves of the car; a racing stripe that looks as old as the car itself. A Camero? Maybe, or a Mustang - you were never good at identifying cars, but whatever it is, it looks like something those car fanatics would have gotten hard for.

 

The engine dies - loud grumbles laced with gasoline cease - as he turns the key and kicks his door open. The force with which he slams it shut startles you enough that your feet take you a few steps back. Safe distance, you think, feeling sweat gather on your upper lip and brow line. He wasn’t here by coincidence. Somehow he knew you were stranded, whether he knew because he’d been waiting outside your work, hidden in the shadows, or he had another tracker on your phone, you can’t say for sure. He’s here now, though.

 

His shoulders jump under a dark green hoodie; hood up and eyes shining like pinpricks of starlight.

 

This is dumb. You should be running - not that you’d outrun him or anything given the state you're in, but you should be running for appearance's sake at least. Instead, you take a steady breath and watch as he jogs around the car and paces - once, twice then three times - in front of you before settling against the side of his ride with his arms folded around his stomach.

 

His head hangs low, looking at you through deep-set shadows that reach down until all but his cheekbones, nose, lips and chin are drenched in nothingness. 

 

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, “You killed Blake, didn’t you?” 

 

It’s a bold move for someone like you, and you don’t feel particularly bold given the circumstances, but you need him to say it. Once you get with the program and know for sure he did the things you think he’s done, then you can move on. All this second guessing is wearing on you; keeping you up at night with your phone covered under piles of clothes and a chair shoved under the doorknobs.

 

“Heh!” He busts out in a high giggle, holding in what appears to be another with the edge of his teeth dug into his lower lip, “I uh, jus’ put ‘im in the chair. Heat did the rest… but I gotta say it couldn’t have happened to ah nicer guy.” 

 

His words are drenched in sarcasm; dripping with it and though your lips twitch, you don’t smile. A guy like him could take that the wrong way. Might think you condone his actions… and you don’t. Of course, you think murder is wrong - it’s never the answer, but if you're honest with yourself, he’s right. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person than Blake.

 

“So, baby. Want ah ride? I got them gross burritos you like waitin’ fer you to wrap those lips around ‘em.” Though his browline jumps in pride, you notice his fingers jerking into the folds of his hoodie - the way he sweats and the little red you can see in the low light. He’s nervous. The guy's a fucking wreck, and it calms your pulse a bit. 

 

Even though you know better than to get in a van with a stranger that promises candy, in this situation you feel like you're the one in control. If anyone asked you why you wouldn’t have an answer that didn’t sound insane, but your excuse for nodding is good enough for you, and that’s all that matters.

 

“R-really?” He stutters momentarily, like you’ve changed into a pink unicorn with bat wings - the mental image of which follows you into his car where that smell of cheesy burritos and the special sauce turns into a dense fog. The seats are hard on your ass and force your spine at an angle that pinches your side but helps distract you from the insanity you’ve just committed. The tender flesh of your heart pulsates between your lungs as your stalker throws himself into the driver’s seat, twisting around to face you. He reaches into the backseat, producing a white and blue paper bag and the smell of Chili Patch’s burritos assails your nostrils. The fleeting thought that he’d poisoned them only concerns you for a second before you gingerly take the bag from his shivering fist and pull one aluminum foiled blanket of deliciousness from the warm bag.

 

You make sure he eats one before you do, but once he’s licking the special sauce off his lower lip, driving one-handed down the highway towards your home, you devour the remaining two with relish. The rest of the car ride is silent until your phone vibrates in your purse. Margo’s text stares up at you, making your lips screw down. A courtesy text thirty minutes later, when it's obvious you’d either gotten on the bus or found another ride. 

 

You swipe right and hit delete. Fuck her… if you get raped and murdered tonight, you hope she feels appropriately guilty when the word gets around.

 

“Margo’s ah dumb bitch.”

 

For a second you startle, almost forgetting where you are and who you’re with. A murderer - that’s who you’re currently alone with. More precisely he murdered for you, but that only fosters a feeling very unlike the proper emotions you ought to feel.

 

“I want you to get whatever you have on my phone off,” you tell him, even and stern. The way he throws his head back and laughs would have scared you, but the side view of his face keeps you quiet and distracted as he slowly gazes back at the road, lips curled with a slow shake of his head. 

 

You watch his lips purse, “How'd ya think ah found out about our buddy, Blake? Huh? You keep too many secrets to turn that piece of genius off… ‘sides, you’d be stuck waiting fer the bus if it weren’t fer that.”

 

“Something tells me you’d have shown up with or without a second pair of eyes in my damn pocket,” you snap back, feeling oddly intimate with this man despite everything pointing to the contrary. 

 

“An' ears,” he adds; teeth gleaming between his stretched lips. The red glow of a stop light floods his face - the demonic light edging into the shadows under his hood and pinging off the wet surface of his eyes. He looks like something out of a Bosch painting, all pallid and red with an oily sheen.

 

“Why?” you blurt, staring ahead at the traffic that passes through the intersection. It’s a limitless question. Why did he kill Blake? - why you? What about you was so fucking special as to take a life over?

 

The silence you get from the driver’s seat finally pulls at your gaze, watching the way he glares ahead, fingers white-knuckled and wringing around the steering wheel. He licks his upper lip, rakes his teeth over the lower plush and clicks his jaw tight. Between tight teeth and a vicious edge he seethes, “... ‘cause I love you, that’s why.”

 

It’s the last thing he says before he parks the car outside your driveway, throwing the car door open so he can make it to your side before you can open your own door. It would have been chivalrous in another setting. Right now, the gesture sets your nerves on fire, and all you want to do is get inside your house, commence with your security ritual and shove your phone down the garbage disposal.

 

Your smitten stalker tries to follow you inside, but you fidget and gasp like he’s already got his fingers inside of you at the door. The way he looks down inside his darkness makes you think your average reaction saddens him. Fuck him, you think, swallowing a scream as his arms jerk at his sides.

 

“T-thanks for the ride,” you manage before wedging yourself through the crack of your front door. Dead bolt in place, key hold turned to the right, and from the dining room you grab the backup chair and shove it under the knob. There's a raw sound outside your door, as if he’s still out there, breathing against the wood.

 

From your pocket, your phone vibrates. You pull it out with sweat running down the side of your face and look at the bright screen with a damaged exhale. A text message stares up at you, listed from an Unknown number with a little heart emoji.

 

‘The name’s Lucas, by the way. Sweet dreams, baby. I’ll be here if you need me.’

 

After thirty minutes of silence, never once hearing his steps fade away or the car engine gas up, you finally stumble to your couch, clutching your purse with the impossibly small bottle of worthless pepper spray, and fall asleep to dreams of murdering hillbillies and bundles of roses, leaking pus.

  
  
  
  
  


**First Date**

It felt pretty cheesy, even for someone like you who sorta, kinda, maybe liked a bit of cheese. You’d done your hair and put on some eyeliner, which for you was going all out.

 

Later tonight you’d pay the price for wearing the mascara, but maybe a hot shower after your date would limit the itchy eyelashes you were sure to feel in the morning. Whatever, you could stand to feel pretty every now and then. Given that it was just a double date and nothing serious, a part of you didn’t see the reason to even bother with the makeup, but this wasn’t a pity date. You liked Beth’s brother for some reason and the idea of having a boyfriend was reassuring given everything that has been happening.

 

Sure, you could handle yourself no problem… more or less, but having someone as scary looking as Brian hanging around might keep Lucas away. 

 

The nagging worry that it would get Brian killed only concerned you for a second. Blake was gutted because he beat you and raped you… not because he went on one double date with you and Beth. Just the quick thought of that asshole made your self-confidence waver into the negative, leaving you with a stinging, vomit-tinged sensation in your throat and belly. 

 

Inside the mirror, with the sticky fog still lingering in the corners, you watch yourself take a deep breath and smile. No, you need this, and no one is going to ruin it for you unless you let them. Even if tonight goes tits up, your Mom will be right. Getting out there is important.

 

You didn’t wanna die alone, after all, and you definitely didn’t want your only friend to end up as Lucas… even if you’d masturbated after a wet dream of him breaking into your home last night. In all honesty, that dream was the deciding factor in accepting the offer for the double date that evening. 

 

You’d awoken in a cold sweat; cunt soaked and dripping between your thighs. In the dream, Lucas had busted your window, crawled through like some demonic sex spider with a hot, fat cock protruding from between his legs and shoved his blurry-eyed face between your thighs. You’d been sitting on your kitchen counter for some reason as a prehensile tongue slithered up your cunt, sliding through your guts to tickle your heart, bleeding pleasure through you.

 

When you’d woken up the first thing you did was throw the covers off and delve a hand through the slippery mess painting your inner thighs. There, on your bed, with the fading memory of Lucas looking up with those pale blue eyes - the hint of red, slobbery tongue sliding inside your body - you strangled a rotten climax out of yourself, and then another… and another. 

 

Staring at yourself in the mirror you wrinkle your nose in guilty pleasure - sure, it felt good, but after the high had worn off you felt disgusted with yourself, and rightfully so. The last thing you needed was to fall into the arms of another guy with too many screws loose, even if Lucas was a different kind of insane. 

 

Broken teeth, bloody gums, and a weeping side flash before your eyes. 

 

“Man's gotta pay his dues…” you whisper to the mirror, watching your breath brand the surface with dense fog. Unhinged, you reach into your purse resting on the counter and fish out a bottle of pills. He’d left you a bottle of Ativan with the label scratched out on your doorstep last week. Who knows who’d they belonged to before now, but they were legit… not poison and you take one with a mouthful of spit and count to ten.

 

Beth, her boyfriend Tommy and Brian show up in Tom’s sedan at seven on the dot; heavy country music bouncing inside the vehicle. Already you're trying to convince yourself not to go. 

 

When your phone vibrates as you finally unlatch the last lock on the front door, you know who it is. 

 

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ your phone reads. 

 

Gingerly, you swallow as your stomach fills with bile. Fuck this, you think as the car outside honks, lashing your skin with goosebumps. You send a quick text back, ‘Getting laid’ and turn your phone off out of spite. It’s probably the last thing you should have texted a murderer, but you’ll live by your mistakes if the worst should happen. Right now, you have a date to enjoy.

 

And enjoy it you don’t, but the pill you took earlier lets you smile as if you do. Maybe you don’t get warm fuzzy feelings when Brian tells a joke and smiles at you, but it’s pleasant enough being out of the house around people and hell, you're about to order another drink when your eyes turn to find the waiter - it’s there you pause, spotting him at the bar.

 

Your heart stops.

 

Lucas is hanging off the edge of a barstool, sneakers flat on the floor with his hands shoved into the deep pockets of his hoodie. The hood’s down tonight, allowing the light from the bar to wash over him in swatches of orange and yellow. Those eyes stare… but not at you. He’s digging holes into Brian, poor oblivious Brian with a good heart and nothing else.

 

“Heh’hey, girl… hey, what’s the matter with you?” Beth asks, stopping the conversation at the table with her hammy look of concern - she’s been at it all night, and it’s all you can muster not to get up and walk out. Instead of dashing, you blink as if surprised, trading glances with the three of them before plastering on a fake smile.

 

“Just been awhile since I’ve been out in public ya know,” you laugh, pushing your elbows on the table with a heavy, elated sigh. One more hour and you can say your ribs are aching from all the fun you’ve been having - another lie, but that’s alright. The heat of Lucas’ stare turns to you. You can feel it boring into the back of your skull like a fucking woodpecker. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and it’s only when you’ve got you fingers pulling at the edge of it that you remember you didn’t turn it back on after leaving the house.

 

Beth is asking everyone if they want another beer and you mumble a yes, twisting your neck, so your chin rests on the ball of your shoulder; eyes trained on that fatal spot at the bar. Empty. You feel sweat threading through the loose curls at the nape of your neck and search the expansive room with mounting unease. Again, your phone buzzes and you shake, reaching under the table to turn your phone over in your lap. 

 

‘Look at those lips and tell me he ain’t sucking cock for a living.’

 

Your mouth falls open, and through parted lips, you suck in a deep, grounding breath just as the table shakes and lo and behold Lucas is right there - right fucking here at your table with a full, sweaty grin and something like blood pooling in one giant, manic eye. There’s a cut on his chin you hadn’t noticed from the distance and a dark, purple stain on the folded hood around his neck. Its blood… and he’s here, standing with his head hung low inside his shoulders.

 

“Fancy seein’ you here, baby!” He’s looking at you and only you - hot, obsessive eyes that make your breath come faster, harder. “Mannn, I’ve been meanin' to get up with you about the other night - really hot an' heavy stuff!”

 

“Lucas-” you start and stop dead as he shushes you like you're some five-year-old, reaching around to steal a chair from the empty table behind him. He plops down, grunting and drags the legs screaming across the floor. A strong, warm arm is suddenly laid over your shoulders and the moist breath he emits sticks to the side of your head like a humid Louisiana summer. It feels like your heart has stopped beating and all the blood is held stagnant in your veins.

 

Beth looks only mildly perturbed, annoyed perhaps that you’d lied about being single based on the pitying look she throws at Brian for a hard second before laying on a gushy smile, “What about last night? Somethin’ you forgot to tell me, huh? Sounds like you.”

 

“Don’t it though!?” Lucas barks, hissing a string of giggles before letting his arm fall around your lower back; palm cupping your hip through the thin cotton dress. Someone’s going to die… and if all goes well it’ll be him and not Brian, who you can feel tensing up beside you. Lucas is making you look like a skank, and out of everything he’s done, it’s this that pisses you off the most.

 

“This little angel right here sure kno-ah’hhhh…” Lucas falls silent as you pinch the fatless skin around his waist, twisting it enough to hurt, but he moans, goes red in the face and looks like a man that’s just cum in his pants. It startles you only long enough to make your friends laugh nervously.

 

“Outside,” you hiss, elbowing his arm back until his fingers release your hip - the flesh aches, but whether it's a throb that says you want more or less, you don’t know. Don’t care either way. The chair skids out from under you and Lucas stumbles up like a bottle rocket, skipping on his heels with a manic flare of energy, chest bumping into your back in his haste to follow you out the restaurant. The whole time you wade through busy tables and march out the long hallway to the entrance, you can't stop your heart from pounding - it thuds so fast and so hard that you swear the coppery taste in your mouth isn’t from your steak tonight, but from your insides sweating blood.

 

As soon as the evening air hits your throat, you spin, shoving a hand into his chest to take a handful of damp fabric, dragging him as he paws at your hips and back, growling a hot mess down the back of your bare neck.

 

Once the water cuts between the dock and the side wall of the restaurant, you throw him back with as much force as you can muster and scream, “What the fuck are you doing?!”

 

Lucas looks floored - looks like you’ve just told him you’ve got cancer or something and proceeds to sweat as you yell at him. 

 

“You pull this shit one more time, and I don’t care if they put me in a fucking interrogation room - I’ll call the cops and sign whatever bullshit they want in order to keep you a hundred fucking miles away from me.”

 

His adam’s apple bobs against the lights behind him, but the vitriol is clawing at your throat, and the anger that spills isn’t only for him - it’s for Blake too, but Lucas killed him, so Lucas gets it instead.

 

“Or what?” You snarl, “Huh! - you want me to move out of state to keep your ugly ass off my back? How about that! You think I want to fuck you or something?! Well - fucking good luck with that you creep… I’d rather face fuck a gator than fuck you…”

 

It isn’t until Lucas is trembling, head hanging forwards like someone’s broken his neck that you feel your anger subside. 

 

He looks like a child - a betrayed child that’s about to cry. It should make you feel satisfied, but it doesn’t. Instead of shoving him into the darkness, cursing him for the murderous creep he is, you end up with a hand on his twitching arm, pressing your lips tight. You bend and tilt up, looking into his face as gummy tears catch in the corner of his eyes. Words are lost on you, probably would be lost on him too so maybe it’s best you can’t manage anything right now. Lucas sniffs up a barrage of snot, and instead of seeing it as the act it is, you offer him an apologetic smile and take a step closer. The close, nearly intimate action only leaves him with less distance to conquer when he fists the loose fabric around your waist, yanks you in and forces a kiss on your mouth.

 

It’s a second of brain-dead blinking, giving him enough time to run a sloppy wet tongue against the seam of your lips before you squeal and throw a fist into his chest. 

 

Lucas grunts, teeth on your lower lip and the sound he makes - a cross between a massive male climax and some feral dog - makes you gasp, allowing his warm tongue into your mouth. He tastes like old mint and the image of him poking nicotine gum out of cheap plastic sleeves almost ruins your fight.

 

His lips suck and that tongue… it slips up along the roof of your mouth, sending a bolt of heat down your middle until you bite down hard enough to rend muscle and taste hot leaking blood fill your mouth. No scream - no shouting or even a hiss of pain. Lucas moans like you’ve stuck your hands down his pants. 

 

As his tongue tenses between your teeth, you feel his hands dig into your spine. His hips drive forward, careful not to move your body too hard - the mindfulness he possesses over your healing ribs is enough to drain some of your resistance. The fist you’ve thrown into his chest loosens, turning to lay a flat palm over the sharp slap and bounce of his heart. The line of his cock burns against your belly, and you swear you can feel it twitch-twitch-twitch and then…

 

“... fuck,” he exclaims; mangled with your teeth stuck in his tongue. Bruises rush into your hips as his fingers curl and that twitch becomes a pulse, and you can feel it…

 

Lucas cums in his pants as your teeth turn red and his tongue spasms and his heart jackhammers and… and you wrap a palm around his throat as it produces a litany of wet gasps. You’re pretty much going to hell right then because you’ve never been so aroused in your whole fucking life as you are this very moment while Lucas pants against your teeth and breathes his way through the euphoric afterglow of a good orgasm.

 

 

 

**Sex**

He's been more persistent than usual after last Friday. Figures, given what happened that night.

 

It's Wednesday now, and you don't know if he's ever been more than a hundred feet away from you. Isn’t that what people said about spiders? - that it was pointless being afraid because you were never more than twenty feet away from one at any given time? Your horror-laden wet dream makes more sense when you think about that...

 

Outside your bedroom window, you swear you can hear Lucas at night, hunkered down in the bushes on his phone; snorting while you try to sleep. You swear you can hear him now as you lay in bed; a heating pad shoved under your left side. Your ribs have ached all day thanks to the angry way you’d masturbated that morning, uncaring about the angle of your body as you squeezed a third consecutive climax out of yourself. 

 

Third time’s the charm, after all.

 

Monday after work, he tailed you all the way home after you refused to let him drive you home. How he hadn't gotten pulled over, going two miles an hour on the main roads with cars passing by - drivers shouting profanity and honking - you'll never know. But to save your legs the trouble and the other drivers the hassle you've let him drive you home yesterday and today. 

 

Each time you got in his car, he's had dinner waiting for you. It was one of those really oily subs from the Italian Deli yesterday, and tonight he got those potstickers from the Chinese place down the street. He was gonna make you fat if this kept up. 

 

Mainly you were just unnerved by him. The attention didn't bother you, not anymore at least and there was something to be said about having a constant eye on your safety. No, Lucas upset you because he was forcing his way into your life and the idea of him being a staple of each and every day wasn't nearly as unappealing as it ought to be. Sometimes you pictured life without him always so close and got nervous. Aside from that Ativan before your date on Friday, every time you got a little anxious all you had to do was remind yourself that Lucas was close by and the dread would fade away. Everything was alright - if you passed out for some reason or blinked to find a gun in your face Lucas would know… he’d protect you. 

 

He’d take care of you.

 

The idea of being taken care of like that felt good, even if your pride wasn’t as much of a fan.

 

Once, while you were brushing your teeth before work, you realized he was everything you could ask for. Minus the murder and the stalking… and maybe he was unconventionally attractive with the big nose and receding hairline, but he had money (somehow), a car, was courteous and helpful. Lucas always held the door open for you, always made sure you were comfortable and happy and he'd killed Blake because of what that asshole had done to you. Motherfucker killed your abuser…

 

Maybe Blake had kicked you in the head, and you just don't remember - maybe he scrambled your brains and Lucas was just enjoying the side effects. Could be you were crazy, but the fact remains that you were growing fond of the guy stalking you - the guy you’d kissed Friday.

 

He came in his pants after you nearly bit his tongue in half...

 

You lay in bed now, in a baggy shirt and your underwear, thumbing the purple spotted yellow bruise highlighting the left side of your body as Lucas shuffles in the bushes outside your window. It's almost like white noise at this point - another realization that disturbs you. 

 

Last you checked there hadn't been anything out there that marked where it was he actually holed up. No barren patch of dirt or empty can of soda to mark he'd been there. Another thing to add to his list - the guy cleaned up after himself. Maybe you ought to make a pros and cons list for the dude. The idea makes you giggle, stopping on a long whine as your ribs blast dull pain. 

 

You've stopped worrying about the fact that he can watch you through the camera on your phone and merely lift it up, pinched face, unflattering angle and all, to check the weather forecast. The radar shows a curtain of green and dense yellow coming towards you, starting over the next hour or two. You shouldn't care, but you scratch along the mottled skin under your shirt and imagine Lucas sitting in your bushes, clothes wet and sagging off him as you sleep. Well, he wouldn't do that… he'd probably curse and sit in his car, watching your house while the rain comes down. 

 

Carefully, your fingers rest over the hem of your underwear. 

 

Both scenarios make you twist on your bed, feeling the cool sheets under your hand, fiddling with the edge of your phone. 

 

Text him, you think. He's seen you - knows you better than anyone alive. He's been in your fucking house after all. Why not just let him in? He'd do about as much damage laying on your couch as he would stuck outside, either trapped in his car or out in the rain. 

 

Maybe if he's inside, he can… you imagine him kneeling at the edge of your bed, massaging your feet and kissing your ankle; begging for another kiss like the one you shared on Friday. It wasn't really a kiss, more like an attack. And then the mental image of his head nodding between your legs as his tongue runs a firm trail up the seam of your cunt assails you.

 

You blink it away, sigh and tease the sensitive skin below your navel.

 

Lucas probably wouldn't beg. Instead, he'd pace the length of your room and ramble to himself, always about to reach out for you before pulling back. He seemed to desire your touch and at the same time feel unworthy of it. Something about that knowledge makes you want to lean back and put a hand down the front of your panties, but you're still broken from that morning and even with your right hand doing all the work you can feel the muscles around your left body tense. You could grab that stupid vibrator from the bathroom… could hide your phone but that wouldn’t matter because he’d hear the hum and your moans. 

 

Still, your fingernails scrape the hem of your underwear, feeling the warmth of your skin against the palm of your hand. Blood flushes under your skin; running hot and eager. 

 

You're not even safe to fuck the desire out of yourself without wondering if Lucas will know - will see or hear. A nasty thought crops up, and even though you tell yourself it’s not the deciding factor when you grab your phone - it sure as fuck is.

 

‘Just come inside already,’ you send the text, only briefly regretting it as you lay back into your pillows and smirk, waiting for him to ask you to let him in. You’re enjoying the lulling heat from the pad underneath you and the distance roll of thunder as you wait for his text back when a screech of metal comes echoing from your bathroom.

 

The one window you hadn’t bothered to glue down. 

 

It must have been too small for him to fit through. From the bed you stare at the ajar bathroom door and listen as Lucas grunts and curses - the sound of something clattering to the tile floor makes him utter a ragged “... fuck you, ya stupid shit!”

 

He makes it inside as a flash of heat lightning blasts behind your curtains, strobing thin lines on the walls of your bedroom. Your legs aren’t spread open, but they’re not closed either, and the baggy shirt is bundled up under your breasts, exposing the line of your stomach and the healing bruise when he bangs the bathroom door open, standing there looking frazzled and sweaty.

 

“Hey,” you mutter, staring over at him with engorged eyes. You’ve made a bad decision letting him inside, but the look that crosses his face when he takes you in makes all those taboo feelings come back as one compact desire. 

 

Is it still a booty call when your stalker comes through your window looking like this? His baggy pants are hanging off his hips, sweatshirt half zipped and veering off one shoulder while his chest runs and falls; panting. The sweat covering him is fresh and shiny, darkening the collar of the gray shirt around his neck. He’s borderline gross looking… but the idea of sliding your hands down his damp stomach doesn’t manifest negative feelings.

 

If you do what you want to, there won’t be any going back. Is it worth it for what might not even be a good lay? - with your ribs could you even fuck right now?

 

Lucas hiccups a breathless laugh, “Ain’t you jus’ perfect… heh’h’how about you let me slide them panties off and-”

 

“Lucas,” you shout; firm, “this doesn’t mean you’re allowed to come in here whenever you want. You understand?”

 

“Yea-yeah, sure. Whatever you say, baby. I can play by the rules when the game’s fun enough.” A bead of sweat slides down the side of his temple, catching in a floppy ear. His eyes strain over your lower half, but when you wince and slide up against your pillows, that gaze of his lands on the bruise.

 

Your shirt slips down to your hips as you position yourself, bending your left leg up at the knee. Pupil-flooded eyes dart between your legs, and you watch with a dark shiver of anticipation as Lucas' adam’s apple bobs. The audible sound of his swallow makes you feel invincible. This feels too much like taking advantage of a mentally unstable person, but if this is something you're considering, then it stands that you're just as fucked in the head as he is.

 

Another flash of lightning throws light around your room; over him, making you think of old B-horror movies and how you’d always had a thing for Frankenstein's Monster.

 

“... alright,” you whisper, watching him fidget in place; gawking, “... unzip your pants. I want to see it.”

 

You don’t think there’s ever been a guy as quick to whip out his dick as Lucas is. It takes one long exhale until you’re sucking in a hard breath at the sight of his erection; pointing up at a slight angle from the opening of his boxers - it’s pale, thick and long enough to make someone drool with the right about of attention. His cock sways as he shakes; trembling. A drop of precum leaks out of the tip and slides down the underside.

 

“W-what uh… what d'ya think?” he asks as his voice catches on a swallow. He’s no less loud or jittery, but there’s something in his voice that reminds you of the sounds he’d made at the restaurant right before he’d cum. If he’s got a premature ejaculation problem… that would be a shame.

 

You heard that guys who masturbated with the sole intent to cum as fast as possible ended up popping too early; unable to fight the tickle of an orgasm. Lucas would be one of those guys, you think. It explains the way he’d creamed his pants Friday night - it explains why his dick was bleeding a string of precum over your carpet right now. Maybe if he…

 

“Go grab a towel from the bathroom and come back here,” you instruct him, sounding breathless yourself as he nods hard enough to pinch his neck and steps back, bumping into the door frame before disappearing inside the dark bathroom. He shuffles in the darkness as you catch your breath, laying a hand over your hip. Feeling the hem of your underwear stretching over your hip bone makes your heart stutter. This is stupid, you think as Lucas stumbles against the edge of your bed, clutching a striped towel in his hand and his red-tipped dick in the other; mouth open and huffing grunts.

 

“O-okay,” you tell him - tell yourself, “... rub one out before we do this, alright?”

 

“Yessum,” he pants, laying the towel out on the edge of the bed, already beating himself off with a tight fist. The fat, swollen head slips in and out of his curled palm only a dozen times before he hunches over.

 

You watch, holding your breath, as he braces a hand over the towel, hanging his head low. Lucas whimpers, strings of cum flying out of the head of his cock, catching in the towel where they lay in long, messy lines. The back of his neck tenses; sweaty and almost elegant. If given a chance you’ll sink your teeth into it, and then you remember you don’t need a chance. If you want to do it all, you’ll have to do is ask. Lucas is yours to with as you please.

 

The nerves in your clit throb at the sight of him catching his breath, whispering your name under his breath. The sounds he makes, which are so much like the ones he’d muffled against your teeth that night, send little waves of excitement down your stomach. 

 

Yeah, this is a dumb fucking idea, but you can regret it in the morning. Right now you’ve decided you’re gonna fuck this guy. Lucas. You’re gonna lay back and let a murderer touch you willingly. 

 

The feeling that soaks into your skin is not unlike that time you jumped off the cliff at the Springs last summer. So much adrenaline coursing through your veins - all that nervous energy and anticipation. You’re scared and eager when you slip a hand down between your thighs and shove your underwear aside, watching as he picks up his heavy head, finding you exposed for him.

 

“Can you-” you start and stop, trying not to press back into the pillows as Lucas crawls across your bed with mindless eyes and falls between your thighs; lips open and sliding hungrily against your cunt without any preamble. His tongue slides up, poking under the stiff bead of your clit before sucking it into his mouth. 

 

You’ve only gotten oral from a couple guys, and while they all had a different method to their madness, Lucas follows none of the rules. He slurps your folds and nips at the puffy skin of your labia before shoving his tongue inside you. At this angle, you have a perfect view of his feasting between your thighs. Those pallid blue eyes - blown out with black pupils - flick upwards, staring at you under a pronounced brow as his tongue twists, darting in and out of your sensitive, quivering flesh. 

 

“... fuck,” you breathe, fisting the pillows at your back and beside your shoulder. 

 

That distant sensation comes out of nowhere, growing deeper the more he looks at you - the more he frantically mouths every inch of your wet cunt. It sloppy and you can feel the duvet under you grow damp with his spit and your fluids… but when the pressure starts building you relish the wet, messy sounds his mouth makes against you. 

 

“Fuck,” you gasp, laying a hand on the back of his head as your hips tilt. He growls, pulls hard at your clit with his lips and teeth and shoves a careful palm under your left arm, keeping that side of your body from jerking as you try to thrust your hips into his mouth. His lips seal around your cunt, creating a hot seal of pleasure as his tongue beats your nub.

 

Your eyes roll back in your skull, nails digging into the back of his prickly scalp, and you finish. It would hurt, or more honestly, you’d have hurt yourself thrashing and tensing if it weren’t for his hands holding you still, keeping you steady while he tongue fucks you into oblivion.

 

Lucas closes his mouth, sucking like an open mouthed kiss as he pulls away from your cunt. His eyes stare down at the tender flesh; bulging orbs unblinking. The way he looks at that spot, his lips red and shiny, makes you think of someone stumbling upon a wad of hundred dollar bills - like a plunderer unearthing a site of gold and trinkets or of a Templar finding the Holy Grail.

 

A full, self-assured grin splits his face, “Heh’ah knew you’d taste good, but this’s gotta be the tastiest little pussy across the fucking globe!” Lucas makes your stomach jump as he giggles mock howling at the moon before his fingers clench in your skin and he delves back down for more.

 

“Haaa…” you gasp, slapping your other hand around the curve of his skull, before yanking the shell of his ear between your fingers, shoving yourself into his mouth. 

 

You come again, knowing you’d let slip his name at some point because he’s even more energetic and noisy afterward, making snarling sounds like a wild animal digging into a carcass. Teeth skim well-abused flesh and somewhere down the line you’ve decided enough is enough and pull his face out of your cunt by his ears, twisting the cartilage until he whines and follows your lead, shaking with your fluids running down his stubbly chin.

 

It should be gross, and maybe it is, but you yank his ears, pull him in and kiss him; tasting yourself inside his mouth. 

 

The slippery mess on his chin and cheeks sticks to your face as he whines, treating your mouth like he had your cunt - still lost in the motions. You release his ears, taking his hips in your palms while he’s busy humming between your lips; braindead. With a quick hand around the steely flesh of his cock, you angle him down and urge him inside. 

 

Like a fucking knife through flesh, you think, swallowing the long, desperate sound he makes as your hips slap together; his cock buried to the hilt. Uncaring for the pain in your side, you slide your fingers around his thin hips, spreading your fingers down the loose hem of his pants, pushing the fabric over his ass so you can grab a handful and pull him flush between your thighs.

 

Lucas’ lips fall away. He winces, hissing and shoves an elbow into the pillow over your shoulder, holding your left breast in his hand like an anchor. Your hips roll, and he sobs, “Shit… oh’shit, yur...yur ribs, baby. Shiiit!” 

 

No stopping now, you think, laying your head back to watch the tight, painful look of bliss pinch his face as you rock your hips, slapping them up as his cock drags and presses. It’s shallow and deep and doesn’t feel as good as if he was going fast and shallow, but the scratch of hair above his cock teases your tender clit and the tight knot of pleasure with each bottom out is enough to bring sweat out of your pores.

 

“Don’t-don’t think about it,” you groan, fucking yourself with your hands on his ass and ankles hooked over the backs of his thighs. It’s pointless to tell him this is going to hurt you more than if he just gave in and hammered you like you want him too, but you can feel your cunt shivering around him already and… “oo’oh god… god fuck, just fuck me already!”

 

He does.

 

Lucas bends up, braces your shoulder and hip against the bed and sits back on his heels before driving his cock inside you, making the room fill with the hard, wet slaps of skin on skin.

 

That’s all you need to come again. The pain that resonates from your ribs is dampened as your orgasm spreads in a leak of carnal bliss, eating away at the tension in your limbs and stomach. You twitch, feel your cunt strangle Lucas’ thick cock until he’s slipping out of you, removing the hand you had on your hip so he can jerk a load of hot cum over your twitching stomach.

 

It’s hard to hear past the cotton in your ears but those whiney, coarse grunts Lucas makes as he cums sound even more heedless than before. Wads of cum slide down the slope of your mound, dripping over the inflamed folds of your cunt. It’s disgustingly sensual, and you blink away a blur of orgasmic tears and watch a final glob of cum fall into the puddle on your belly.

 

Another point to the pro column, you think as your head spins. The fucker didn’t assume he could cum inside you… then again, you’re sure he knows you don’t take birth control. He knows everything else about you after all.

 

“Yur mine - ain’t gotta worry about shitheads like Blake while I’m around. Gawd’damn, baby I’ll eat that pussy all day fer you. Tell me who you wanna see strung up like ah’ pig and it’ll happen. Whatever ya want… jus’ tell me,” Lucas seethes through hard breaths, running his wide palms up to your ribs, lifting your baggy shirt over your heaving breasts. 

 

You’re too lost in the afterglow and the soft kisses he presses to the bruise on your side to think about his mutterings. As he sucks your nipple into a stiff peak, you run your nails up his back, feeling the hard keys of his spine.

 

“What did you do to his stomach?” you ask, to which he pauses and pulls back from your wet nipple.

 

Lucas lays a palm on your pillow, stares down at you with sweat drying on his forehead and grins - it’s infectious and gleaming and thunder booms in time with it that you wonder if you’re dreaming or not. He runs a finger through the mess of cum on your stomach and rubs your swollen nipple with it as you stare up at him.

 

“So, she wants to know what ah’ did to that asshole? Thought you’d never ask, baby,” he licks his lips, blinks once and leans down to lick up your cum-slick nipple before tugging it between his teeth. “Ah found that retard balls deep in some dumb skank after one o’ them games.”

 

You feel your breath grow ragged as he talks, painting your nipples and breasts in wet trails of cum, most of which he tongues off your skin like it’s whipped cream on a sundae.

 

“Took ‘im back to my place an’ put the sounds of that night on the surround sound. Let that loop fer a few days until he shit ‘imself. Ooh’ho, but that was worth having to listen to his dumb screams all day. Ya know he cried when I told ‘im what I was gonna do?”

 

You curl your fingers inside the hollow of his shoulder blades, “... and what-what was it you did, Lucas?”

 

Lucas sucks on a nipple, spreading a hand in the leftovers of his orgasm and slides the wet hand down over your cunt, pressing fingers along the over-sensitive nub. He swirls it gently - his cum making the friction smooth and bearable. If you’d known having an obsessive murderer in your bed would be full of so many orgasms you might have told him to come inside earlier, but as it stands now you’re hanging on his every word, and Lucas knows it.

 

“Heh,” he laughs, rubbing at your clit as he watches your face from against your chest, tongue flicking the perky bud with a chummy grin, “what? - aside from hacking his hands and feet off? Well - let’s jus’ say I got a rat problem at mah’ place and those lil’ fuckers will eat through a soft belly to get away from something hot.” 

 

You know what it is he’s referring too. For all you know the reason why Lucas did it was because you’d googled that after watching a horror movie involving the practice a few months ago. It sounds like a fitting way to kill someone as unsympathetic as Blake, but you still liked the mental image of his belly overflowing with bright, glittering tinsel and cheap Christmas ribbons. The visual coincides with a soft orgasm coming forth from Lucas’ slipping fingers. His lips land over your breasts, down your stomach and through the coating of cum before you hold in a breath and release it, coming with his tongue lapping at your clit. 

 

He can stay tonight, you decide as he runs loving kisses down your thighs and back up your body, licking away sweat along your neck. 

 

Lucas takes great care in making sure your ribs don’t hurt even though you try to kick him away when he attempts to move the heating pad back under your side, rubbing cooling cream over the mottled skin. 

 

In the morning you’ll deal with him, right now you’ll let someone else take care of you, enjoying the overtly tender care and insane declaration of love against your skin. Lucas isn't supposed to be here with you - he should be stuck out in his car in the rain… hell, you should have a restraining order against him, at the very least, yet you don’t.

 

“We’re gonna revisit this in the morning,” you mumble, halfway to sleep as Lucas presses his nose into your hip. He’s got your legs laying over his curved side, and one long arm draped over your stomach; a soft hand cradles your healing ribs. Yes, it’s all quite sweet, but you’ll remember how dangerous he is in the light of day…

 

“Whatever ya say, baby… ah’m alllll yours.”

 

“Goddamn it…” you whisper, drifting off. What mess did you just get yourself into?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading as always. I'd like to thank Zoadgo for Beta'ing this for me (she's an amazing person and author). If you have the time, please leave me a kudo and/or comment. It means a lot and if you have any suggestions for improvement I'm happy to hear those as well. <3
> 
> Tumblr ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/


End file.
